This is the room with collected objects and photographs on the desk, the bed unmade, and the mattress on the floor.
This room belongs to the skinny boy with the soft messy hair under the straw hat with the blue sash who rides his bike around the city and wears thin t shirts and paints. Who furrows his brow, his almond eyes and long lashes look at you as you sip a cup of tea in the warm light of his living room, the girls at Tartine waving from the sidewalk below.
The girls at Tartine wait to see if he would like a cappuccino or a croissant as he waves down to them from the bay window in the third floor flat. He shuts the door to the window and the draft carries down the hall into the bedroom where the drawing of Ferdinand the Bull awakens and lifts from the wall.
The Bull. Wounded with an arrow in his side, nose and eyes turned down to his hoof, the sparkle in his eye dim, but always with enough light to let the prospect of love in.
We were two broken hearts. So we laid in bed together until we unwounded each other’s hearts and formed a somewhat mended and manageable heart.
Every late night spent together talking, laughing, smoking. On the town, on the roof, in the bed.
People said, “Slow down, take your time. Wait first before you jump in.”
I thought, “Every idiot can take their time and miss out on life’s greatest opportunities on Love, but not me, babe!”
so you can smell the flowers and make decisions.
Sometimes you have to trust yourself. Even if you can only draw stick figurines to express your emotions: